The recently coined and highly popular slogan was greeted with a massive roar of approval. Women applauded, men took off their hats and waved them as they loudly cheered this sentiment. James North remained on the rotunda, his head slightly bowed, as if humbled by this deluge of national fervour.
William guessed they had been noticed, but only by a flicker of an eye did North betray it. ‘Had enough?’
‘I think so,’ Hannah said.
They began to move away. Both were aware of curious glances directed at them, leaving as they did amid the enthusiastic and continuing acclaim.
‘Lunch,’ William asked, ‘or have you just lost your appetite?’ The restaurant was a converted boat shed, overlooking the sand and sea. They ate without enjoyment. From the surrounding park they could hear the brass band endlessly playing military tunes.
‘John Philip Sousa and his ilk have a lot to answer for, with their wretched martial music,’ William said. ‘Very stirring. The feet tap. They march. The next thing, some poor devil has signed up to go off and fight, with every chance of getting his head blown off.’
‘I daresay the same thing is happening in Berlin,’ Hannah said. ‘They like to march and sing. But if Europe wants to set itself on fire, why do we insist on being invited to help put out the flames?’
He smiled at her.
‘You almost make me wish I was still in politics. I could use that phrase.’
‘You wouldn’t be popular. Every politician of both parties is in favour of the war. You and I were probably the only people in the park today opposed to that bilge North was spouting.’
‘I think he saw us,’ William said.
‘I’m sure he did. Strange, I used to be afraid of him.’
‘Of Jimmy North?’ William was startled.
Hannah nodded. ‘I always thought he’d do you harm. He hated you.’
‘Well, I did use him — then made bunnies out of him and Reid. He never forgave that. And in a way he got his own back. I would’ve joined the Labor Party if they’d have me, but North got there first and put the boot in.’
‘I meant personally harm you. Harm your family. Perhaps through me — while Edith was alive. I was scared of that.’
‘You never told me.’
‘I supposed I hoped it would never happen. And it never did. But he’s still a malicious man. He’d love to hurt you.’
‘He no longer needs to care about me. Which brings us to what we came here to talk about. I’m out of politics. I’m alone. And the question with notice is still on the table.’
‘William …’
‘Please,’ he begged her. ‘You did agree we’d discuss it.’
‘We can discuss it, but nothing changes.’
‘You won’t marry me?’
‘I’d like to marry you. But not now. Not yet. I can’t.’
‘Because of Harry?’
‘You got him back, William. Whatever happened to the Barossa, he came back to you, began his law studies, and you’re reconciled. That’s very important. And I will not jeopardise it.’
‘For God’s sake, Hannah, are you saying you want to marry me, and I want to marry you, and my bloody grandson is stopping us?’
‘Will you listen to me? William — listen.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Harry must resent me. How could it be otherwise?’
‘For God’s sake—’
‘William, just shut up, and listen.’
His mouth opened, and stayed that way. He glanced about him and saw other diners beginning to hear their raised voices, and look in their direction. Hannah ignored them, and reached across the linen cloth and took his hands. She smiled at his expression. It had been a long time since anyone had told William Patterson to shut up, in quite such a public and peremptory way.
‘Willie darling, try to see my point of view. If it caused problems, if it meant losing him, you and I’d never forgive ourselves. In the end, our marriage would fail. Whereas we’ve been happy all these years the way we are. Can’t you see, my love, this is best?’
‘I want you to be my wife.’
‘I have been, in all but name, for a long time.’
‘I mean officially. No more hiding. And no more gossip.’
‘Who the hell cares about gossip?’
‘I do,’ William said, ‘if it’s about you.’
‘I’d rather keep what we have, than risk losing everything.’
‘I told you before, if it has to come to a choice between you and Harry-’
‘You haven’t really listened.’
‘Of course I listened.’
‘Then you haven’t heard.’
He stayed silent this time, and she said quietly, ‘I don’t accept there should ever be a choice. We’re not children who must satisfy ourselves, no matter whom we damage. I was angry he walked out — not that I had any right to be, but that’s how I felt — because he hurt you. Now I think I understand. Edith’s death was the end of a time of stability in his life. He went looking for something else, and didn’t find it.’
‘You mean in the Barossa?’
She nodded.
‘You once said, he doesn’t know who he is, or where he belongs. I think he’s found out. He’s decided he belongs with you. You told me he came back confused and lost. That Elizabeth wrote and said there were family problems, and to be gentle with him.’
‘I have been.’
‘I know. And he’s settled back into his old life. You said you’re able to talk like you used to. It seems, since his return, you’ve become friends again. That’s good for you, and terribly important for your grandson.’
He was silent for what seemed a long time. ‘And us?’
‘One day, perhaps. Give him time. Give us all time.’
‘Trouble is, we’re getting older and time becomes more precious.’
Carl walked home slowly. He was sick of school. He hated the Lutheran Academy, and the repetitive lessons, which bored him and would be of no possible use, since he intended to work with his father on the vineyard. It was with a feeling of relief that he thought of the end of the spring term, when his school days would finally be over. His mother had not been pleased; she felt he should remain and complete his final year, but Papa had persuaded her.
Let Harry be the scholar, he had said, and there was some bitterness there that Carl did not understand, although he knew his father disapproved of Heinrich calling himself Harry. He silently hoped his brother would not come to the valley again. They would never have anything in common and Heinrich didn’t belong here with his different ways; he was an outsider.
The boys from St John’s Grammar came out of the bushes at the side of the road, catching him unaware. They were all sixth formers, some almost as big and strong as he was. A few were local, the sons of farmers, others were from Nuriootpa. They stood waiting in a line across the road, grinning with anticipation. He recognised Tom Carson, whose parents ran the dairy farm and did mail deliveries. His own parents had helped the Carsons, and given them work. Now it was his voice that Carl heard first.
‘Stinking German spy.’
They all marched a pace forward, then another. They were sniggering. He could not get past them, because the line obstructed the road, so he turned the other way. Another group of St John’s boys had come from behind the hedgerow, blocking his retreat.
‘I’ll fight if you want a fight,’ Carl said, ‘one at a time.’
They laughed derisively, and began to converge on him.
‘Spy. Dirty spy. Filthy hun. Dirty rotten German traitor.’ They came at him in a rush from all sides. He managed to hit one in the nose, and blood spurted, but was assailed by a barrage of fists, as they fell on him like a pack of savage hounds. When he stumbled and fell, they began to kick him.
‘German spy,’ they chanted. ‘German spy.’
The university quadrangle was almost deserted. Harry was waiting for David Brahm, and saw his angular figure leaving the medical bu
ilding. It was a gusty day, and the wind blew a discarded newspaper across the asphalt towards him. It wrapped around his legs, and as he removed it he saw the headlines: GERMANS TAKE BELGIUM CAPITAL. HUN ATROCITIES. NUNS RAPED. Much of the page was taken up with a large cartoon of a bestial figure in German uniform, stamping on the face of a defenceless and frightened girl.
He felt a moment of revulsion at the blatant crudity of the drawing. Was it true, the terrible things he read, that the Germans were supposed to be doing? Was it fair to categorise a whole people as barbaric monsters? His father was hardly that, nor Gerhardt Lippert nor Oscar, nor any other German he had met. He wondered, for the first time how they must feel, seeing their own race depicted as prehistoric and ape-like creatures in brutish caricatures such as this.
‘Very nasty,’ Brahm said, looking over his shoulder. ‘They certainly go the whole hog, don’t they? Quite repulsive. Who’s the artist?’
‘Norman Lindsay.’
‘I thought he only painted naked ladies.’
‘There’s his signature,’ Harry said.
‘Good God.’ David Brahm peered at it. ‘So it is. Reprinted with kind permission of the Bulletin.’
They walked through the empty grounds towards Cleveland Street, to catch a steam tram home.
‘What other news?’
‘Antwerp’s fallen. It says the Germans are feeding poison to the Belgian men, and raping their wives.’
‘Do you believe it?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Why so vehement, old son?’ David put on arm on his shoulder. ‘Heaps do believe, I fear. We’ve just lost our Professor of Biology.’
‘What do you mean — lost him?’
‘Prof. Beidermann. No longer does he teach us where to find the fibula or the tibia on Sam the skeleton.’
‘Why not? What’s happened?’
‘He’s been arrested.’
‘Professor Beidermann? For what?’
‘Being German, I suppose.’
Harry felt a sudden alarm. A chill of foreboding. ‘How can you be arrested for — for being German?’
‘Who knows? A paddy wagon came for the professor last night, so the resident students said. Four large members of the constabulary, to arrest one small, inoffensive lecturer.’
‘Jesus. But there must be some other reason. It can’t just be because he’s German.’
‘Why not? Lots of them are being interned.’
‘Are they?’
They heard the tram approaching.
‘Have you heard from my sister?’ David asked.
‘I had a letter yesterday.’
‘Any room on the page for actual news — I mean, after the space taken up by kisses and all that stuff?’
‘Shut up,’ Harry replied.
‘Honestly, what did she say?’
‘She said — it had been a lovely summer, and she got Honours in her first year’s exams, and so, despite the war, she couldn’t possibly come home. Besides, everyone there believes it will be all over by Christmas.’
They boarded the tram. Harry disposed of the newspaper. He wished he had never seen it. They paid their fares and took their places on the hard wooden bench seats.
‘What’s upset you, Harry? Apart from Kate’s being on the other side of the world?’
The tram ride was a slow journey through Surry Hills towards Centennial Park, and he watched the passing terraced houses as he tried to frame an answer.
‘I’m worried about some people — friends of my family in the Barossa. German born, but they’ve lived here for years. Half their lives, some of them.’
‘Are they naturalised?’
‘Yes. Long ago.’
‘So they’re Australian,’ David said. ‘What’s the problem? They have nothing to fear.’
‘I suppose not,’ Harry said.
Oscar Schmidt gave Elizabeth a bottle of liniment, and when she tried to pay he refused to take the money.
‘Please, Oscar. This is business.’
‘This is not business. This is stupid larrikins. Hooligans.
Lucky the doctor says there are no broken ribs. He’s to use the liniment three times a day, Elizabeth. And make him rest.’
He saw her to the door of the Apotheke.
‘Have you reported it to the police?’
‘Carl won’t let us. Or tell us who did it. He says the police no longer protect people with German names.’
‘Silly talk, Elizabeth. He’s wrong.’
‘Perhaps he is, Oscar. But does Sergeant Delaney stop to chat to you these days, like he used to?’
‘The sergeant is a fair man. He’ll do his job.’
They went outside. Many of the broken shop windows were still boarded up. Glaziers and carpenters had been in short supply, most of them busy in Adelaide, where the damage had been extensive, while others apparently would not undertake the work. They saw Eva-Maria and Gerhardt across the street, and went to join them.
‘How’s Carl?’
‘Too tough to cry,’ Elizabeth said. ‘But they hurt him.’
‘You see,’ Gerhardt said to Oscar, ‘it begins.’
‘Just stupid kids,’ Oscar replied.
‘Anti-German feeling,’ Gerhardt insisted.
‘I keep telling you, this war is nothing to do with us.’
‘So everyone keeps telling me.’
‘Then be sensible and listen to them. After all, we live here.
We don’t support the Kaiser. It’s just hysteria — things will settle down. Why put ideas in people’s heads?’
Eva-Maria was watching her husband.
‘Maybe Oscar’s right,’ she said. ‘You should listen to him.’
‘I do listen to him,’ Gerhardt said. ‘The last time I listened to Oscar, he promised me faithfully there wouldn’t be a war.’
When the new windows were at last fitted to the line of shops, including JOHANN GRAETZ’S SCHLACHTERIE, PASCHKE’S SMALL-GOODS, SCHUBERT’S MODEWAREN GESCHAFT, as well as most of the houses on the main street, Oscar Schmidt went around reassuring everyone that the hysteria was now definitely over. He was earnest and persuasive, and people began to relax. There had been no more trouble. The town was looking normal again.
Four nights later they came back again, by truck, this time with an arsenal of weapons. Steel bars, clubs and sledge hammers. And this time the lights in the police station stayed dark, despite the clamorous sounds of destruction. When they finally left, not a shop window remained intact, and the street was crystalled with fragments of broken glass.
The following day Johann Graetz, in his striped butcher’s apron, was supervising the repairs. While a glazier trimmed putty on the new window, a painter on his ladder was already brushing and obliterating the faded sign that had been on the gable above the shop for forty years. JOHANN GRAETZ & SON. ESTABLISHED 1884 was totally erased. Later that same day a signwriter lettered a new name on the window, and the premises became GRAY’S BUTCHERY. Nearby, Schubert’s window simply advertised: ENGLISH GOWNS AND MILLINERY. Paschke sold his business and went to work in a factory.
Gerhardt drove to town for a drink and an argument with Oscar Schmidt. They saw the newly repaired windows, all trace of German names and signs effaced.
‘So? You don’t have to replace your window yet, Oscar. If you do, if your glass is smashed, do you change your name to Smith?’ Oscar refused to countenance the idea of changing his name.
He took Gerhardt upstairs for a glass of schnapps and further argument. He was adamant the situation would be resolved.
‘I still say, if we are sensible and don’t provoke people, all this will die down.’
They were waiting in a thicket along the dusty road. Several groups of boys from St john’s school passed, but Carl shook his head. He kept watching, and gestured for them to remain in hiding. When he finally identified Tom Carson approaching with the group of sixth formers, he gave a signal. Before their quarry could realise it, they were surrounded by a number of
burly German farm youths.
‘This bastard’s mine,’ Carl said, heading for Carson.
There was a brief but ferocious encounter. When the others had been dealt with, and allowed to run, his friends realised Carl was still battering the terrified dairy farmer’s son.
They restrained him, letting Carson stagger to his feet. ‘Might’ve killed him,’ Jacob Honneker said in German.
‘Fine with me,’ Carl said in English. ‘At least I used my fists. This pig and his mob used their boots.’
Stefan had tried to ignore the war. He resolutely tilled the soil, tended his vines, and kept away from town as much as possible. He rarely read the newspapers and took no part in the endless arguments between Gerhardt and Oscar. Only at night did he talk of his concerns, to Elizabeth. He felt the best thing they could do was stay calm, obey the law, and in the end reason and sanity would prevail.
Gerhardt tried to provoke him by declaring this was the asinine philosophy of Oscar Schmidt — chemist, optimist and pacifist. Stefan irritated his oldest friend by retorting he also was a pacifist — and why not an optimist? What need was there of another pessimist, with one like Gerhardt around? Eva-Maria had laughed and hugged him, and said if the war lasted, she might have to get a divorce. She complained there was war talk at their table morning and night, and even in their bed, when their minds should be on other things. Stefan smiled and afterwards agreed with Elizabeth there would be no talk of war in their bed.
That had been weeks ago. He worked from daylight until it was dark, and refused to be involved in further debate. It was Europe’s affair. He privately thought his adopted country should not be sending troops, offering the British a force of twenty thousand men who would be at their disposal. He felt it was wrong, but kept his silence. It was best that way. A few insults, some racist remarks; he didn’t like it, but he could tolerate that sort of thing. But this was different. This time it was his family — Carl had stupidly retaliated.
A Bitter Harvest Page 25